into
sunlight.
'That's lovely!'
He looked at her. 'No better than you could do,
with practice.'
Yeah, right.
'I've found out what you meant, about my name,'
she said. 'Philip Wilson Steer. English painter,
influenced by the French Impressionists. Born in
eighteen-something and died in nineteen-forty-something.'
'You've been researching?'
'My mum knew.'
'Steer's your father's name, presumably?' He had
put down his wine-glass and was stroking the cat,
caressing his head and ears and making him purr like
a small engine.
'No, it's Mum's. My father left when I was two. He
went back to Canada and I never see him. His name's
Colin Cudrow. Mum and I were called Cudrow at first
but when he left, Mum went back to Steer.' Charlie
wasn't sure how much Mr Locke knew about her
mother, or about Sean or the baby; whether it was
common knowledge among the staff.
Oliver tried it out. 'Charlotte Cudrow. No, Charlie
Steer's much better.' He wrote it in the air with his
pencil, like someone signing a painting, with a final
flourish. 'Charlie . . . Steer. Cudrow sounds like a line
of cows in a milking parlour. Join me for a few
minutes? There's wine in the entrance hall – shall I
fetch you some?'
'I can't! Jon would go ballistic.'
'The temperamental chef? If you had one glass of
wine?'
'If I sat out here chatting. There's a great pile of
lettuce and tomatoes waiting for me in there.'
'You get time off during the day, though? Why don't
you join my group tomorrow? You've got far
more talent than most of these people, I can tell you.'
Charlie, unable to help feeling flattered, shook her
head. 'I've still got exams to revise for. Geography and
German. I didn't do as much as I meant to, today.'
'You'll have finished by next weekend, won't you?
I'm going to be around, on and off, for the next few
weeks. Portraiture next weekend; Life Drawing after
that. It'd be a good chance for you to get some work
in your sketchbook.'
Charlie knew he meant the sketchbook that formed
part of sixth-form coursework. He smiled at her,
relaxed and unhurried, leaning against the back of
the bench. She was beginning to feel flustered – partly
because she expected Jon to appear at the store-room
door any moment and yell at her. 'But I haven't made
up my mind yet,' she said. 'It's only a possibility.'
He looked at her seriously. 'Charlie, if you don't do
Art, it'll be a criminal waste of talent.'
'Really?'
'I mean it. You'd do well, perhaps even brilliantly.
With good teaching, of course.'
She looked at him sitting there on the bench. Yes,
OK, Mum and Anne were right. He had the sort of
face that grew on you, so that after a while you
couldn't think why you hadn't noticed immediately
what a good-looking man he was. He had an intent
way of gazing at her that made her feel she was
worth looking at. A shaft of sunlight fell across the arm
that was resting on the side of the bench; he wore a
white linen shirt with wide, short sleeves. Charlie
looked at his shapely forearm, his hand resting
on the curve of wood, and thought: I could draw that.
'I'll be late,' she said. 'No, I am late. See you later.'
Inside, washing, shredding and chopping the salad,
she thought again about her subject choices. She had
talent, he'd said; said it twice. Charlie wasn't used to
being thought of as talented. Her mother's view, conscientious slogger , was shared by most of her teachers. You have worked conscientiously this year was a phrase that
appeared often in her subject reviews. She took it to
mean that she was quite unexceptional.
'You'd do well,' he'd said, 'perhaps even brilliantly.'
Brilliance, talent – the words danced in her head
like taunting fireflies. Should she slog away at her
academic subjects, or take the chance to do something
at which – if he'd been sincere – she might excel?
She began to like the idea of herself as artist. The
people who did Art in the sixth form were a group
apart, more like college students (Mum said) than like
school pupils; on
sunlight.
'That's lovely!'
He looked at her. 'No better than you could do,
with practice.'
Yeah, right.
'I've found out what you meant, about my name,'
she said. 'Philip Wilson Steer. English painter,
influenced by the French Impressionists. Born in
eighteen-something and died in nineteen-forty-something.'
'You've been researching?'
'My mum knew.'
'Steer's your father's name, presumably?' He had
put down his wine-glass and was stroking the cat,
caressing his head and ears and making him purr like
a small engine.
'No, it's Mum's. My father left when I was two. He
went back to Canada and I never see him. His name's
Colin Cudrow. Mum and I were called Cudrow at first
but when he left, Mum went back to Steer.' Charlie
wasn't sure how much Mr Locke knew about her
mother, or about Sean or the baby; whether it was
common knowledge among the staff.
Oliver tried it out. 'Charlotte Cudrow. No, Charlie
Steer's much better.' He wrote it in the air with his
pencil, like someone signing a painting, with a final
flourish. 'Charlie . . . Steer. Cudrow sounds like a line
of cows in a milking parlour. Join me for a few
minutes? There's wine in the entrance hall – shall I
fetch you some?'
'I can't! Jon would go ballistic.'
'The temperamental chef? If you had one glass of
wine?'
'If I sat out here chatting. There's a great pile of
lettuce and tomatoes waiting for me in there.'
'You get time off during the day, though? Why don't
you join my group tomorrow? You've got far
more talent than most of these people, I can tell you.'
Charlie, unable to help feeling flattered, shook her
head. 'I've still got exams to revise for. Geography and
German. I didn't do as much as I meant to, today.'
'You'll have finished by next weekend, won't you?
I'm going to be around, on and off, for the next few
weeks. Portraiture next weekend; Life Drawing after
that. It'd be a good chance for you to get some work
in your sketchbook.'
Charlie knew he meant the sketchbook that formed
part of sixth-form coursework. He smiled at her,
relaxed and unhurried, leaning against the back of
the bench. She was beginning to feel flustered – partly
because she expected Jon to appear at the store-room
door any moment and yell at her. 'But I haven't made
up my mind yet,' she said. 'It's only a possibility.'
He looked at her seriously. 'Charlie, if you don't do
Art, it'll be a criminal waste of talent.'
'Really?'
'I mean it. You'd do well, perhaps even brilliantly.
With good teaching, of course.'
She looked at him sitting there on the bench. Yes,
OK, Mum and Anne were right. He had the sort of
face that grew on you, so that after a while you
couldn't think why you hadn't noticed immediately
what a good-looking man he was. He had an intent
way of gazing at her that made her feel she was
worth looking at. A shaft of sunlight fell across the arm
that was resting on the side of the bench; he wore a
white linen shirt with wide, short sleeves. Charlie
looked at his shapely forearm, his hand resting
on the curve of wood, and thought: I could draw that.
'I'll be late,' she said. 'No, I am late. See you later.'
Inside, washing, shredding and chopping the salad,
she thought again about her subject choices. She had
talent, he'd said; said it twice. Charlie wasn't used to
being thought of as talented. Her mother's view, conscientious slogger , was shared by most of her teachers. You have worked conscientiously this year was a phrase that
appeared often in her subject reviews. She took it to
mean that she was quite unexceptional.
'You'd do well,' he'd said, 'perhaps even brilliantly.'
Brilliance, talent – the words danced in her head
like taunting fireflies. Should she slog away at her
academic subjects, or take the chance to do something
at which – if he'd been sincere – she might excel?
She began to like the idea of herself as artist. The
people who did Art in the sixth form were a group
apart, more like college students (Mum said) than like
school pupils; on
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